


never felt like home (until i had you)

by groundopenwide



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Post OTRA, domesticity to the max
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-24 17:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4927942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/groundopenwide/pseuds/groundopenwide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Missed you.” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Zayn’s voice is hushed, careful, as though he’s not sure he’s allowed to fully make the admission. Each syllable slurs together like he’s spinning molasses.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Niall shuffles his head down the pillow until he can kiss each of Zayn’s knuckles, just once. Zayn hums, the sound coming from far away. They fall asleep with their hands intertwined.</i>
</p><p>Or: Tour ends, and Niall goes home to Zayn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never felt like home (until i had you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PaisleyLove96](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaisleyLove96/gifts).



> so much to say, so little time. 
> 
> first off: thank you to the mods for your infinite patience. i'm beyond grateful. 
> 
> second: i had big plans for this fic (BIG!!!) but then real life got in the way and finishing it was much harder than i expected, hence the rushed ending. like i said, though, i had plans- i still do! so who knows, maybe someday soon, there'll be a sequel/continuation of sorts. at least that's what i'm hoping!
> 
> to PaisleyLove96- you asked for Niall coming home to Zayn during the break. i hope this hits the spot (despite the delay)!
> 
> title taken from _drive_ by halsey.

It’s cold and drizzling when the car pulls up in front of Niall’s building. 

The streetlight on the corner flickers as he slips from the vehicle, joints aching and eyelids drooping. It’s early, too early—practically the middle of the night. The exhaustion seeps from every corner of his body, and it’s like all of its crevices and cavities are stuffed with cotton. His ears are still ringing from screams and mic feedback. There’s a faint buzzing in his head that only crops up after a show, when the shift from sound into silence is drastic and quick.

The driver offers to assist with his bag but Niall halfheartedly waves him off, shouldering his rucksack and clutching at his suitcase handle. He lugs it up the front steps in order to avoid the grinding sound of wheels on cement, and then he’s inside, the numbered buttons painting a golden portrait on the wall of the lift as it climbs up to the tenth floor.

All of the lights are off when he steps into the flat, nothing visible except for the faint glow coming from the windows in the living room. Niall toes off his shoes and leaves his bags by the door, using the light from his phone to shuffle down the hall. Once he’s quietly finished up in the loo, he moves into the bedroom, already changed into sweats and an old t-shirt for the three hour ride back from Sheffield. He shuts off his mobile and stands there in the doorway for a long moment, just breathing.

The bedsheets rustle ever so slightly, and Zayn slants one eye open. The side of his face is pressed into the pillow, skin creased from sleep. He makes a soft sound before wiggling further to the left on the mattress, the right already untouched and exposed, like he’s been waiting for Niall to come fill the empty space. The inside of Niall’s chest turns warm and syrupy at the thought.

“Hi,” Zayn mumbles, soft and sleepy. 

Niall sets his mobile on the nightstand before lifting the covers and sliding into bed, the sheets whispering across his skin.

“Hi,” he says back, just as quiet. 

He turns onto his side so that he’s facing Zayn, one fist curled up loosely between them. Zayn’s eyes flutter shut again, but not before he reaches out and coils his hand around Niall’s, gentle and steadying.

A few silent minutes pass, the night winding itself around them like calm waves rolling towards the shore. Niall thinks Zayn’s fallen back asleep, about to doze off himself when he hears the words.

“Missed you.” 

Zayn’s voice is hushed, careful, as though he’s not sure he’s allowed to fully make the admission. Each syllable slurs together like he’s spinning molasses.

Niall shuffles his head down the pillow until he can kiss each of Zayn’s knuckles, just once. Zayn hums, the sound coming from far away. They fall asleep with their hands intertwined. 

*

When Niall wakes up, the left side of the bed is cold and dim grey light is peeking through the blinds. Every part of his body hurts despite sleeping for however long, the rapid _go go go_ of touring finally hitting him full force. He groans and rolls onto his back to fix his gaze on the ceiling, blinking in an attempt to clear the fuzziness from his vision. 

Fifteen minutes later, he finally drags himself out of bed, socked feet hitting the hardwood floor with a light _thump._ He turns his mobile on long enough to check the time—1:04 PM—before powering it off again and making his way into the loo to wash up. He wees, washes his hands, and then moves to clean his teeth, squeezing some of Zayn’s toothpaste (Colgate spearmint) onto the spare toothbrush he keeps in the first drawer for when he comes home on breaks. 

The mirror is a bit dirty when Niall peers into it, and he loses himself in observing the smudged fingerprints that mar the edges of the glass before he remembers to spit out his mouthful of foam into the sink. There’s a small row of products lined up on the counter, face wash and deodorant all labeled with scents that are distinctly _Zayn._ Niall absently reads the description on the back of a bottle of moisturizer as he swishes water around in his mouth. A beat later, he spits it out and rinses the sink, flashing a grin at his reflection once he’s finished.

Feeling slightly more human, Niall emerges out into the flat and heads for the kitchen. He moves slowly, taking the time to reacquaint himself with this place—with his home. His toes curl against the dark wooden panels that cover the floor, and he runs his hand along the frames that line the wall of the den, the platinum editions of all four of their albums glinting back at him from beneath his fingertips.

Most of the flat looks the same, but then there are the few new additions that have trickled in since he was here last: the abstract painting on the wall to the left of the telly, a pair of boots and a pair of trainers that don’t belong to him lined up by the front door, the maroon patterned afghan draped over the back of the sofa.

Zayn stands hunched over the stove in the kitchen, the lean curve of his back covered by a grey jumper that’s most definitely Niall’s. The fabric is soft and worn when Niall approaches and skims his fingers along the hem, circling his arms around Zayn’s waist. 

He tucks his face into the back of Zayn’s shoulder and inhales, spices and cologne and fabric softener all mingling until they’ve swelled together in a cloud and Niall’s floating on it. His right hand settles low on Zayn’s stomach, the other cupping his hip. Zayn drops the spatula in his hand so that he can cover the palm on his abdomen with his own.

“What’re ya making?” Niall murmurs in lieu of a greeting. His nose seeks out the nook behind Zayn’s ear, nuzzling at the skin. 

It’s obvious that Zayn’s smiling as he shrugs and squeezes his fingers around Niall’s once before picking up the spatula again. “Heard the sink running and thought y’might be hungry,” he explains, slithering out of Niall’s grip long enough to reach into one of the cupboards and grab a plate. 

While he’s out of the way, Niall peers into the pan. It’s nothing more than your standard cheese toastie, but it’s still unbelievably sweet and a little ridiculous that Zayn even thought to make him food in the first place. 

A lump rises in the back of Niall’s throat. He waits for Zayn to turn the burner off and slide the sandwich onto the plate before carefully moving back into his space, this time so that the two of them are standing face to face.

In the dull light of the afternoon, things feel different. It’s the first time that Niall’s seeing Zayn up close like this in what seems like ages—the stubble scattered across his jaw, his still-shaven head, the way his eyelashes flutter against his skin when he blinks. He looks healthy. Happy, like the past months have done nothing but good for him.

The lump is back in Niall’s throat, but he tries not to think about it- _can’t_ think about it. Instead, he tucks his hands beneath Zayn’s jumper and fits them around his hips where the skin has gone soft and supple, giving way beneath his fingertips. He leans in and rests his forehead against Zayn’s clavicle. “Thank you,” he exhales.

Zayn’s palm drags along the knobs of his spine, settling at the small of his back and rubbing slow circles there. “‘Course,” he says gently. “Tea?”

“Please.”

There’s a plate in Niall’s hands a moment later, Zayn dropping a kiss to his forehead and nudging him towards the breakfast bar. Blearily, Niall circles the island and props himself up on one of the bar stools. He puts his plate down, then leans forward to set his elbow on the granite countertop and rest his chin in his palm, content for now to simply watch Zayn in favor of his food.

The kettle is warming on the stove when Zayn speaks, amusement coloring his voice. “I can feel you staring from a mile away, mate.”

He spins around to face Niall, their eyes meeting over the island. He’s smiling, a small quirk of the lips, and Niall grins back.

“Can’t help it. ’S not my fault you’re so pretty,” Niall says. Zayn just laughs and goes to fetch two mugs for their tea.

Eventually, they both settle at the breakfast bar, Niall munching on his sandwich while two steaming cups rest in front of them. Zayn occupies the stool beside him, occasionally sipping at his tea but mostly alternating between staring at Niall and the wall directly across from them. The attention warms Niall all over. Once he’s stuffed the last bite of toastie into his mouth, he uses his fingers to dust the crumbs from his lips and turns towards Zayn.

“Now who’s staring,” he teases, extending his foot to nudge Zayn’s own.

Zayn takes the motion as an invitation and hooks their ankles together, their feet resting on the lowest rung of his stool.

“You look good,” he says honestly. “Haven’t gotten to look at you in awhile, have I?”

The smile droops on Niall’s face, and he bites down on the tip of his tongue. There are so many things he could say to that— _and that’s my fault?—_ but he swallows the words back. 

“Did I pass your inspection?” he jokes instead, shoving down the vicious curl of his stomach and tilting his chin up in an exaggerated manner, like he’s an emperor statue from ancient Rome.

“With flying colors,” Zayn promises. He takes another sip of his tea, then sets his mug down and rises from his stool, extracting his foot from where it’s trapped beneath Niall’s ankle.

Niall’s about to ask where he’s going when Zayn’s suddenly right in front of him, settling his palms atop Niall’s knees. He gently pushes Niall’s legs apart and slides in between them.

“Oh, hello,” Niall breathes. The sound of Zayn’s laughter is light and lovely, ringing throughout the kitchen and brightening the space like the flicking on of a lightbulb. He lifts one hand and cuffs Niall gently on the chin. Grinning, Niall tips his head back slightly to get a better look at Zayn, who has a couple of inches on him now that he’s standing over Niall’s stool.

“Hello,” Zayn parrots, once his laughter dies down. He’s smiling, tongue between his teeth in the way that Niall’s always found stupidly endearing. 

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Zayn looks genuinely confused.

“Stop _that._ With your face,” Niall mumbles, poking at Zayn’s jumper-clad chest with his index finger.

Zayn is back to grinning as he catches Niall’s finger in his hand and stills it, resting their now-clasped hands against his sternum. “You love my face,” he declares softly, staring down in a way that has Niall’s breath hitching.

“I—” the words die in Niall’s throat. Every centimeter of his body suddenly feels hot, like someone’s struck a match and dropped it at his feet. His hand tingles where it’s wrapped up in Zayn’s, the other man’s thumb stroking along the inside of his wrist.

Something must show on his face, because a moment later, Zayn’s expression melts. That’s the only way to describe it—his entire face softens, and it’s like watching sugar dissolve in water, all of the particles disappearing until nothing is left except the fondness in Zayn’s eyes.

His free hand rises and cups Niall’s cheek, so, so gentle, and all of Niall’s limbs turn to putty. Each of Zayn’s touches feels exotic and thrilling, yet comfortable at the same time. It’s like slipping on a favorite shirt after not wearing it for awhile; Niall wants to wrap himself in the fabric and never take it off.

Turning his face into Zayn’s touch, Niall brushes his lips over the inside of his palm, then the gap between thumb and forefinger, then up over the delicate veins visible in Zayn’s wrist, where the skin is baby soft, practically porcelain. He wants to re-memorize the stretch of it, having lost the sensation somewhere amongst months of nothing but text messages and FaceTime calls.

He hears more than sees Zayn’s shaky exhale, but then two easy hands are on Niall’s face, tilting it upwards. Their gazes lock, and Zayn traces the dark circles beneath Niall’s eyes gingerly with his thumbs. He looks thoughtful, like perhaps he’s recalling a time when the exhaustion was reflected upon his own features.

“I’m happy you’re home,” Zayn finally murmurs.

And home is _this_ : Niall curling his fingers in the front of Zayn’s ( _his_ ) jumper and tugging him the rest of the way down until their lips slot together, warm and familiar. Zayn’s lips are slightly chapped and his stubble tickles against Niall’s cheek, and Niall is tumbling down, down, like the sand ticking away in an hour glass. He tugs lightly at Zayn’s bottom lip with his teeth but makes no other move to deepen the kiss, pulling away after a moment to the feeling of Zayn’s palm scooping the hair away from his forehead.

He blinks his eyes open and Zayn is still there, curling the other hand around the back of his neck to reel him in once more. He pecks Niall’s lips once, barely there, and then again, this time a bit firmer. The third time, his upper lip snags on Niall’s lower one, and Niall breathes out. He opens up when Zayn returns the fourth time, their mouths sliding properly together and the last grains of sand trickling into the bottom of the glass.

“You used my toothpaste.” Zayn sucks Niall’s bottom lip into his mouth, nipping gently. Niall sneaks his hands up beneath knitted fabric, stroking the tips of his fingers over the skin between Zayn’s bellybutton and waistband.

“Didn’t get a chance to unpack,” he mumbles around Zayn’s tongue, which is now laving over the indents his teeth have created along Niall’s lip. Niall keens and sucks Zayn’s tongue back into his mouth, rucking his jumper further up his torso and smoothing both palms over his abdomen. “Was—too tired.”

Niall’s face burns when their mouths separate at last, saliva sticky on his chin. He trembles when Zayn kisses the corner of his mouth, then the edge of his jaw. Flames lick at his fingers from where they rest against Zayn’s stomach.

“’S okay. You taste like me.” Zayn sucks another brief kiss into Niall’s lips before leaning up and pecking the tip of his nose. “Missed kissing you.”

Niall squawks, but he can’t help the flush that creeps over skin when Zayn kisses one eyelid, then the other. It’s—intimate, kind of sort of fucking weird, but it’s also so _Zayn_ that it makes Niall’s knees quiver. They’d be about five seconds from giving out if he wasn’t sitting down.

He smooths down the front of Zayn’s jumper to distract himself, frowning when he realizes how badly his errant fingers have wrinkled the fabric. “Sorry.”

“It’s yours anyway,” Zayn says, smiling.

Niall rolls his eyes. “I know.”

Taking a step back, Zayn snags Niall’s hand with his own and pulls him off of his stool. Niall only stumbles a little as he regains his footing, ignoring Zayn’s laugh as he trails after him into the den. They go tumbling onto the sofa, first Zayn, then Niall, who slumps down until he can rest his head in Zayn’s lap and spread his legs across the remaining cushions. He shuts his eyes and hums contentedly when Zayn’s hand immediately buries itself in his hair.

“What d’you wanna watch?” Zayn asks softly as he clicks on the telly. Niall grumbles something unintelligible and burrows his face further into Zayn’s thigh, the careful hands of sleep already reaching for him even though he’s only been awake for a matter of hours.

Zayn must find something to watch, because the noise coming from the telly becomes steady and another hand fits itself between Niall’s shoulder blades, rubbing gently. Niall sighs and sinks further into the sofa, curling his fingers up next to Zayn’s thigh.

“Wake me up for dinner,” he mumbles. 

Zayn scratches at the back of his scalp in response.

*

Niall wakes up to nothing but darkness, and he definitely isn’t on the sofa anymore. There’s an arm slung firmly across his hips, effectively pinning him to the mattress. Zayn’s breath tickles when it puffs out against the side of his neck.

“I told you to wake me up for food,” Niall grumbles.

Zayn merely shushes him and cuddles closer, smearing a soft kiss against the hollow of Niall’s throat.

*

The third time Niall awakens, he feels refreshed rather than groggy and dragging. Zayn is snoring beside him, and Niall watches the languid rise and fall of his chest for a long moment from his spot on the pillow. 

This is what he’s missed—a body next to him, warm and strong and secure. Zayn’s features are slackened with sleep, forehead smooth and eyelashes spanning the upper rounds of his cheeks. He’s as beautiful as ever. Something pangs sharply inside of Niall’s chest and resonates like the ringing of a church bell at the realization.

After staring for far too long, Niall slips from Zayn’s grasp and pads out into the flat. His stomach is shouting at him for skipping dinner last night, so he heads straight for the kitchen, putting the kettle on and digging around for breakfast ingredients.

When Zayn shuffles in about an hour later, Niall’s made himself comfortable on the sofa. Football highlights are rolling quietly on the telly as he scoops scrambled eggs onto a piece of toast, a few pieces dribbling onto his chin when he goes to take a bite and half of it misses his mouth. He hears Zayn’s rough laugh before he feels a hand in his hair, nails carding gently through the fading blonde strands.

“Morning.” Niall looks away from the telly and up at Zayn, offering him a close-mouthed smile as he chews. A few seconds later he swallows and adds, “there’s more eggs on the stove if you want some.”

“Thanks.” 

A kiss brushes over the top of his head before Zayn disappears into the kitchen, and Niall turns back to the telly, clicking the volume up a few notches. It’s nothing exciting—just a recap of a match between two clubs that he doesn’t really care about—but it’s something to hold his attention while he eats and waits for Zayn to return.

A few minutes later, Zayn walks back in with a mug of tea in one hand and a plate of eggs in the other. He settles himself against Niall’s side, slouching down and propping his feet up on the coffee table with his plate in his lap. His shoulder is hot and solid against Niall’s own.

“Feeling less zombie-like today?” Zayn asks, blowing at the rim of his mug. Steam rises from the cup in silky tendrils, and Niall tracks their motion so that he’s less inclined to stare at the way Zayn’s lips are pursed.

“Much.”

Lowering his mug from his mouth, Zayn wraps both palms around it and grins. The corners of his eyes wrinkle up when he does so. “Good.”

They fall into a comfortable silence as Zayn eats and Niall deposits his empty plate on the coffee table, sighing happily. When he resumes his position on the sofa, he wiggles down low enough to rest his head against the side of Zayn’s shoulder. “What’ve you been up to?” he asks, picking at a tiny hole in the knee of sweats.

“Not a lot. Reading. Painting. I’ve been trying to workout more often.” Niall snorts and promptly feels Zayn’s elbow dig into his side. “Gimme a break. I feel lazy now that I’m not constantly on the go, y’know?”

Niall hums but says nothing, closing his eyes. It’s not that he doesn’t understand, because he definitely does—he never seems to know what to do with himself on breaks, when he hasn’t got forty different commitments penciled into his schedule. It’s just strange to think about what he’d do if those breaks suddenly became…permanent. 

(So he doesn’t think about it).

The right side of Niall’s body goes cold for a moment when Zayn moves to get rid of his dishes, but then he’s back and curving his arm over Niall’s shoulders. “I was actually thinking…”

“Hm?” Niall returns his head to Zayn’s shoulder, turning into his body enough to fling his own arm across Zayn’s waist.

A thumb strokes gently along the curve between Niall’s neck and shoulder. “I know album promo starts up pretty soon—” _three weeks,_ Niall frowns— “but I thought it might be nice if we like…went away for awhile? Nothing huge. Maybe get a place on the coast or summat for a few days. Just…take a real break, the two of us.”

Niall swallows. There’s so much they should talk about, but—he can already taste the salt on his tongue, feel the mist blowing into his eyes and the fresh air on his skin, and it sounds _nice._ Fantastic, even: he and Zayn in some little beach town, outfitted in jumpers and windbreakers with nothing to worry about except keeping warm in the cool weather.

Before Niall knows it, he’s nodding into Zayn’s shoulder. “Sounds wicked. I’ve gotta be back by the twentieth, but like—we could go soon? Next week, maybe?”

He tips his chin back only to find Zayn already watching him, the corner of his mouth curled. “What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Niall blurts. “I—shit. Yeah, okay. Tomorrow. Have you already found a place?”

At the question, Zayn’s expression turns sheepish, his gaze falling so that his eyelashes brush against his cheeks. “I might have already booked it? I was…hoping you’d say yes.”

The admission fills Niall with contentment, his chest swelling like it’s a balloon fit to burst. “Idiot,” he says fondly. Zayn’s shirt sags a bit at the collarbone where the neck hole has worn loose, and Niall kisses the exposed skin, leaving his nose there once he’s done. “I’d never say no.”

Tanned fingers slip through his own, rubbing over the ridges between his knuckles. “I know,” Zayn murmurs. He turns his head slightly and glides his lips over Niall’s forehead, so light the gesture is nearly missable. _Love you,_ he’s saying.

Niall squeezes Zayn’s hand in his own and breathes out.

*

There was no sort of gradual falling together, nor was their a sudden collision that melded them into one entity. 

They’d essentially been together from the start, just in different ways: they were each other’s moon and sun, always orbiting, never meeting, but never separating, either. One day Zayn was thrust into Niall’s life, and that meant he’d been thrusted into Niall’s heart as well. That was how Niall worked—his chest was like a vacuum, sucking up all of the love that it could in order to keep itself full. Zayn just happened to be the one who filled up the most space, the one who kept Niall from spiraling off path with his shy smiles and quiet confidence and careful touches. 

His gravitational pull had always been the strongest. The rest was simply Newton’s third law: _for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction._ Zayn had pulled Niall in, and Niall had pulled Zayn right back.

*

The drive out of the city isn’t a long one, only about an hour from the flat to the little place Zayn’s found for them on the coast. Niall spends most of the drive with his cheek pressed to the window, half-lidded eyes following the scenery while Zayn keeps their hands twisted together atop the gear shift. (Somewhere, some _how,_ he’d convinced the world at large to let them take this trip completely _by themselves._ Niall’s still in wonder as to how he managed it).

It’s early. Not ridiculously so, but early enough that Niall’s a bit surprised at how well-functioning Zayn seems to be. He’d insisted on being the one to drive, nudging Niall towards the passenger side door with an easy smile and tip of his head. Now, he’s singing along to the radio, voice muffled by the whirring of the heater but still audible, smooth and lovely as ever.

“I like this one,” Zayn eventually says, like he knows Niall’s paying attention. “James Bay’s pretty cool.”

“Talented lad,” Niall agrees. 

He smiles at the same time Zayn does, and then they break into simultaneous laughter, Zayn’s hand tightening over his own. The song draws to a gentle end, leaving the car suspended in a moment of quiet, but it’s a quiet that feels comfortable rather than weighted. Niall wants to live in _this,_ right here: in a warm car, familiar fingers woven through his own, with nowhere else to be.

The voices of the radio announcers fade in as the song ends, but they’re gone again in a blink as the next song starts. There’s a short build up, and then—

Niall’s back stiffens. The opening chords of _Infinity_ ring from the speakers, and Zayn doesn’t sing along this time. “Oh,” he says instead.

Niall almost pulls his hand away—almost. He can feel the way Zayn’s fingers twitch against his own, awkward and nervous, and the song is _still playing_ , it’s still fucking playing—

His free hand darts out and fumbles the volume dial until it’s all the way down. The car goes dead silent save for the heater and the harsh in-and-out of Niall’s breath as he struggles to squeeze oxygen into his lungs.

“Niall.”

He slams his eyes shut. There’s a plea in Zayn’s voice, but Niall can’t do this. He just—he can’t. 

“Niall,” Zayn repeats. A faint buzzing starts up in Niall’s ears, and he clenches his jaw against the noise.  “It’s okay, y’know? The song, it’s…it’s really good.”

“Don’t.”

The word slices through the air between them like a knife, sharp and unforgiving. It forces Zayn’s mouth shut, and Niall cracks his eyes open just in time to watch the skin around Zayn’s eyes tighten as he grips the steering wheel and stares straight ahead. 

“So we just aren’t talking about it, then?”

Niall says nothing. Each breath in rattles forcefully through his chest, and he has to press the heels of his palms against his eyes in order to clear the spots from his vision.

“We can’t avoid it forever,” Zayn says, softer. There’s a note of defeat in his voice that sparks an ache in Niall’s gut, deep as a stab wound. “You’re gonna have to talk to me, Ni.”

_Not now,_ Niall thinks. He glues his eyes to the horizon, somewhere an eternity away through the fogged up glass of the window. Zayn reaches out to turn the radio back up, and they don’t talk anymore after that.

*

The cottage Zayn’s found is small, pressed right up to the beach with worn shingles and peeling paint. Niall’s out of the car before Zayn has even cut the engine, moving around to fetch their bags from the boot. He just wants to get inside and forget everything for awhile, or forever, preferably—but he’s not picky, he’ll take whatever he can get.

He’s just gotten one hand on the strap of his overnight bag when he feels movement behind him. A warm palm touches his waist while another loosens his fingers from their death grip on the bag handle, gentle but insistent. A moment later, he’s being spun around. 

“Hey.” Zayn corners him easily against the boot, fitting one hand against Niall’s hip and the other around his cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. The word is hardly a whisper—a peace offering of sorts. Zayn’s lips find the edge of Niall’s cheek, and Niall sags forward, clinging to the front of Zayn’s coat. 

He knows it’s not that easy, and yet—it _feels_ easy, allowing himself to become enveloped in Zayn’s warmth like this, their mouths meeting like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

They separate a few seconds later, but Zayn stays right there, his fingers tucking Niall’s hair out of his eyes. “Let’s go inside, yeah?”

Once inside, Niall drops his bag by the door and toes off his shoes, just taking the place in. A plain living room equipped with a frayed rug and a brick fireplace opens up into a tiny kitchen, off of which trails a dark hallway that must lead to the bedroom and toilet. It’s not much—simple, almost overly so, but for Niall, small is perfect. He shuffles along the old wooden floor in his socks and runs his hand reverently over the back of the sofa.

“This is sick,” he breathes. When he turns around, Zayn is still hovering in the doorway, almost like he’s been waiting for Niall’s stamp of approval. A hesitant smile breaks across his face at the admission, and he finally takes a small step forward, setting his own bag next to Niall’s before hip-checking the door closed.

“You like it?”

“Do I like it,” Niall mumbles, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be dense, mate.”

“Just checking,” Zayn shrugs, but his smile’s still intact, widening by the second. And what’s Niall supposed to do about that besides move back into Zayn’s space so that he can press him against the door and kiss him senseless?

“What was that for?” Zayn asks once they separate. He keeps his hands planted firmly to Niall’s hips, holding him there, and Niall lets him. His frustration from earlier has evaporated, and instead he just feels—content. Safe.

Loved.

“Thank you,” Niall whispers. He closes his eyes, feels Zayn leaning in even before their foreheads come into contact, resting gently together.

“I know this must be—weird,” Zayn murmurs. When Niall’s breath hitches at the words, Zayn just plants a soft kiss between his eyes, soothing. “But it wasn’t about you. It never was, okay?”

And it’s not that Niall doesn’t believe what Zayn’s saying, it just—“Gets mixed up sometimes,” Niall admits, quiet. “In here.”

He taps a finger against his temple, allows it when Zayn grabs hold of it and twines their fingers together. He then draws their joined hands up in between them, lips brushing the folds of Niall’s knuckles with the utmost care.

“Love you,” he whispers. “Don’t let that get mixed up, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Niall exhales, “alright.”


End file.
